Living Every Midnight
by lilacmermaid33
Summary: Will receives a frantic telephone call in the middle of the night. Spoilers up to 2x02.
1. Chapter 1

_Wandering in the darkness,  
Living every midnight,  
Doesn't ever rid night  
Of nightmares as love might_

_- Living in the Shadows (Victor/Victoria)_

ooo

It's the ringing of his Blackberry on the coffee table that wakes him, the shrill sound splintering the quiet of the night, and sending Will almost leaping out of his skin.

For one heart-stopping second he's disoriented, unable to figure out why he's waking up in front of the television instead of in bed, until his aching back informs him that he must have dozed off on the couch before the end of a disappointing Saturday Night Live. He doesn't even like the show, he doesn't know why he was watching it.

He grabs the phone before it can ring again, not even pausing to check the caller's name. "Yeah?" he mumbles.

"Will?"

And there's something in that one breathless, quivering syllable that wakes him up more efficiently than any amount of caffeine he's ever had.

"Mackenzie, what's wrong?" he asks. He's alert and on his feet in an instant, swiping his eyes to clear them of sleep and squinting blearily at the TV – 2:00 AM. They've been exchanging midnight telephone calls a lot recently, but this is late, even for her.

"I'm sorry, I just – I had – I need – can I come see you?" she finally chokes out, practically gasping for air. In the background, Will can clearly hear a car horn, and then a siren, and none of this is doing anything to calm his racing heart.

"Mackenzie, where _are_ you?" Will demands. "Do you need me to come get you?" He's already looking around for his wallet and imagining the worst. What's the name of that new bar she and Sloan have been going to?

"No, I'm almost there," Mac insists. "I'm only a few blocks away. I'll be there soon."

"Wait!" Will yells before she can hang up, because he keeps hearing loud noises in the background, and there's a sneaky suspicion growing in the back of his mind, and he needs her to dispel it before this goes any further, because she wouldn't be this colossally stupid, would she? "What's going on? Why do you sound all out of breath?"

Mac pauses for just a fraction of a second too long, long enough to confirm exactly what Will fears, but he waits for her to say it all the same. "I'm walking," she admits meekly.

"Are you _insane_?" Will roars, the blood pounding in his ears. "It's 2:00 in the morning, and you're telling me you're walking almost four miles _through_ _Midtown Manhattan_? Have you lost your mind?"

There is another long pause, and a sniffle. "I'm sorry," Mac whimpers, "I—"

All the anger drains out of him at once, and he leans wearily back against the couch. "Okay, okay," Will says, cutting her off, his voice much softer now. Any thoughts he has of chastising her fly straight out his enormous, floor-to-ceiling windows, because she sounds like she's seconds away from falling apart, and the last thing he needs right now is for Mac to lose it completely before she even gets here. He imagines himself combing the streets for her, trying to retrace her steps after listening to her have a breakdown over the phone.

Because in the end, it doesn't matter. Whatever reasons Mac is about to give him won't change the fact that she has been wandering the New York City streets alone, at nighttime; the only thing to do now is to get her here safely, and as quickly as possible.

"Okay," he says again, in what he hopes is a calm and soothing manner, as he tries to slow his racing thoughts enough to formulate a plan. He casts his eyes desperately around his living room, as if expecting the overflowing ashtray and half-empty bottle of bourbon to have the answers he's looking for, but they offer no solution.

Will's first thought is to go downstairs, and head in her direction until he finds her, so they can walk the rest of the way together. He's halfway out the door when he realizes that the second he steps into the elevator, he's going to lose his connection to her, and that's just not a risk that he's prepared to take right now.

Will groans with frustration. "Stay on the phone with me until you get here, okay?" he says instead. "We don't have to talk, just don't hang up."

It isn't the best of plans, but he really doesn't have a lot of other options right now, so for the fifteen minutes that it takes Mackenzie to walk the rest of the way to his apartment, Will stands in the middle of the room with his phone pressed tightly to his ear, listening to the sound of her heavy breathing, and attempts to decipher the noise of the traffic swirling around her. He does his best not to think about the forty-five minutes or more when he _wasn't_ on the phone with her, and all the terrible things that could have happened to her during that time.

Periodically, Will asks Mac exactly where she is now, and when she tells him that she's reached the end of his block, he sets the phone down carefully on the coffee table, just long enough to call down to the front desk and tell them to let her straight up.

And all the while, Will's mind continues to race. What could have upset Mackenzie so much that she felt compelled to seek him out in the middle of the night? Nothing to do with the show, certainly – Friday night's broadcast had been solid, and before they left for the weekend, they presented Don, Sloan and Elliot with everything they would need for the anniversary coverage on Sunday night.

And even if the problem _was_ the show, she would have just called. In fact, he'd been surprised and more than a little disappointed _not_ to hear from her last night; the booze and the cigarettes had been a distant second choice, and an extremely poor substitute.

"I'm downstairs," Mac says weakly, interrupting Will's thoughts.

He goes out into the hall to meet her, but he can't quite bring himself to hang up even now that the signal has gone dead, and so when the elevator doors open before him, he's standing there, stupidly, still holding his phone to his ear.

Will needs to take only one look in order to realize that this is a lot worse than even he has been imagining.

Mac's arms are crossed before her chest, tighter than he's ever seen them, like they're literally all that's holding her together right now. Everything about her is brittle, from the ramrod rigidity of her spine to her glassy, terrified eyes, as though the gentlest breeze would shatter her to pieces. The universe screams at Will to be cautious.

She's wearing the black yoga pants she sleeps in when it's cold outside. The matching jacket has been thrown on as an afterthought, but Will is willing to bet that underneath is the lavender tank top she's had for so many years that it is incredibly worn and sinfully soft.

She's not wearing any makeup, and her hair has been tossed into a messy ponytail. She's wearing flats instead of her usual heels, and Will is startled by how small and fragile she looks beside him; he's gotten used to her towering over him when she leans across his desk to yell at him for pandering to the audience.

For a second, Will is thrown back to a time, five years ago, when seeing Mackenzie in her pyjamas in his apartment in the middle of the night was a regular occurrence, and not a cause for alarm.

But her eyes.

Mac's eyes, wide and wild and bloodshot, settle on Will the instant the elevator doors open between them, darting feverishly all over his frame, from head to toe, but almost immediately her brow furrows uncertainly, like she can't quite make sense of what she's seeing.

"Mac?" Will murmurs cautiously, when she doesn't move, or say a word. "Did you want to come inside?" He makes sure to keep his voice level and gentle, so as not to startle her.

Mac steps gingerly from the elevator, lightheaded and unsteady, and Will worries more than once that she's going to pass out before she even crosses the threshold. He's beginning to realize just how lucky they both were that she managed to make it here in one piece, because from the looks of things, she hasn't eaten or slept properly at least since sitting vigil at his bedside in the hospital, and probably long before that.

Will closes the door behind them, and when he turns back around, Mac is standing in the middle of the room, looking lost and disheveled and afraid. She hugs herself even tighter, tight enough that she's able to rake a hand through her hair, even with her arms laced together. It's what she does whenever she's bracing herself for an avalanche of pain, and she's been doing it in the newsroom far more often lately than Will would like to admit.

She continues to peer at him, unspeaking, though a thousand emotions play themselves out over her face. Will, for his part, is filled with the very familiar feeling of desperately wishing he had the first idea what is going on inside her head, because right now he is truly at a loss.

As they stand there, facing each other, one of Mac's hands keeps inching involuntarily towards him, like she's planning on running it up and down his arm, but each time she catches herself doing it, Mac snatches her hand back before it gets very far, a look of absolute dread on her face.

Will imagines them spending the rest of the night locked in this tension-filled limbo, and when she does it for the fourth time he genuinely can't take it anymore. As soon as her hand darts forward a little, he reaches out and takes it in his, stepping solidly into her space.

In some small corner of his brain, Will imagines that his touch will go some way towards soothing Mackenzie, but in this delusion he is sorely mistaken.

Instead, Mackenzie implodes.

As though the touch of his skin has breached some enormous dam deep inside of her, a torrent of horrible, gut-wrenching sobs begin issuing from her mouth. The only reason she doesn't collapse to the ground when her knees give way beneath her is because a stunned Will catches her in his arms just before she hits the floor.

Will's instincts serve him better this time, pulling Mac into an impossibly tight embrace, her arms crushed between their bodies, her hands clinging to the front of his shirt like he's her lifeline. She's both hot and cold in his arms, her heart pounding hard from her exertions in getting here, but every inch of her skin freezing from the night air; he supposes he should be grateful she remembered the jacket and shoes.

Will tries everything that he can think of. He rocks her, gently, back and forth, murmuring soothing words to her, one hand trying to work some of the tension out of her shoulders. He reaches up and gently pulls out her hair elastic, massaging her scalp and stroking his fingers through her short hair. He tries humming a few bars of her favourite song in her ear.

But through it all, Mac is wheezing when she manages to breathe at all, her entire body seizing with the violence of her wracking sobs. If this goes on much longer, she's going to make herself physically sick, but Will is utterly helpless in the onslaught, well past the point where he knows what to do.

Mackenzie didn't cry often when they were together, but when she did, it was rarely serious. A little gentle teasing and self-deprecation was usually enough to put a shaky smile back on her face, her tears sparse enough to be counted and wiped away with his thumbs.

Except that one time, Will reminds himself now. Once, a month or two before the confession that ended it all, Mac had been nearly this inconsolable. The sudden recollection gives Will a surge of hope, because he'd felt helpless that night too, until, quite by accident, he had hit on the right solution.

"Come on, let's go lie down," he urges, praying that the same thing will work today, and guides Mackenzie slowly down the hall to the bedroom they once shared, acutely aware that she's placing all of her trust in him to get her through this.

It breaks his heart to have to let go of her when they reach the bed, but he steps back all the same, and pries her fingers from his shirt when she attempts to cling to him even harder, frantic in the face of this apparent rejection. But it's only for a moment – he knows that she'll be more comfortable without the jacket or the shoes, and he senses that even these simple tasks are beyond her for the moment, so he sits her down and removes them himself, gently, murmuring calmly to her all the while, though he's not at all sure that she understands a word he's saying.

When he's done, he turns down the comforter, and helps Mac to slide into her old side of the bed, quickly climbing in after her. But instead of spooning up behind her, or hooking one of her legs over his like they usually slept, Will turns away from her, facing the door, and pulls Mackenzie's arm around _him_, clasping it tightly to his chest.

"Let it out, Mac," he murmurs, stroking the back of her hand. "Just let it out, I'm here." He takes slow, deliberate breaths, hoping that she will soon begin to match them, praying with all his heart that she can see what he's trying to get her to do.

For one heart-stopping moment, Will thinks that this, too, has failed, that he's waited too long, that Mackenzie needs more help right now than he can give her. But then Mac is scrabbling even closer, her whole body pressed up against him, keening and gulping for air right in the crook of his neck, as she soaks his skin with her tears. She grips him with a strength that would crush her if he were to return it.

Gradually, in the tiniest of increments, Will call feel the tension draining from her, and her cries softening in his ear, until her body has exhausted itself completely, and the breaths he feels on the back of his neck are regular, rhythmic and slow.

Will keeps himself awake a while longer, in spite of his own fatigue, a knot of fear still growing in his stomach. Because when this happened before, it was upon learning of the unexpected death of Mackenzie's beloved grandmother.

What on earth happened tonight that could possibly compare with that?

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

Thanks for reading, everybody! I've had this plotbunny in the back of my mind since halfway through last season, but I didn't know where to go with it until I latched it on to the early part of season two. There are still some lines I'm not happy with, but I wanted to have it posted before tonight's episode, so here you go!

I thought this was going to be a one-shot, but it's turning out to be longer than I expected, and Mackenzie wanted to tell part of the story as well, so the second chapter should be up in a couple days.

I hope you'll leave a review and let me know what you think!


	2. Chapter 2

As she swims her way lazily back to consciousness, the first thing that Mackenzie senses is that the world is wonderfully and deliciously warm.

There is sunlight kissing her shoulders, streaming in through the open window, and she purrs with satisfaction, nuzzling her face a little deeper into the warmth against her front. It feels like her hands and face and entire body are curled around the biggest hot water bottle in the world.

That's when Mac freezes, a cold, wet, sick feeling of dread flooding her entire body.

Because her apartment isn't east-facing – it doesn't get any of the morning sun. And she has a pillow that she clasps to her stomach in the nighttime, but never before has it felt so large and warm and firm.

And with a sudden, strangled gasp, Mac remembers everything from last night, all of it surging back like a tidal wave.

How it's the first time in forever that she's in bed before midnight, with the tantalizing promise before her of a rare decent night's sleep. She's been running on empty for so long that she can scarcely remember what it feels like not to be exhausted and starving and absolutely frayed, but it's a Saturday night, and with tomorrow's anniversary broadcast off the table, she has no excuse not to turn in early.

But giving herself permission to relax isn't as easy as it sounds, not when she's been under a growing mountain of stress for months, single-handedly trying to keep their show afloat amidst all the nonsense the universe has been throwing at them for the last year.

She thinks about calling Will. For a few weeks now, they've been sharing late-night phone calls on more nights than they haven't, and it's been so much easier to fall asleep after hearing his voice in her ear. But she has no pretext of a work-related problem to raise with him tonight, so she regretfully resists the impulse, hanging up three times before she can hit send. The last thing she wants is for him to feel like she's becoming a nuisance, and to stop taking her calls altogether.

How she wakes less than two hours later in a cold sweat, screaming herself hoarse, before leaping from the bed and sprinting into the en-suite, thoroughly emptying the contents of her heaving stomach. When she's sure that she's finished, Mac is shaky and hyperventilating and out of her mind with fear, only one coherent thought running through her brain: _I __**need**__ to see Will_.

As soon as the dizziness passes, she spurs into action, barely taking the time to grab her phone and a jacket and the first pair of shoes that she sees before she's on the sidewalk outside her building, trying to flag down a cab. She realizes, too late, that she's forgotten her purse upstairs, but the idea of running back up there is physically unbearable – it would mean moving farther away from Will instead of towards him, and she's just not prepared to do that right now, no matter how much more logical it would be. And so, without a second thought, Mackenzie squares her shoulders and begins power walking on autopilot towards Hudson Street.

Of course, Will is going to kill her when he finds out what she's doing, but she can't help that. She _has_ to see him. _Now_. Nothing else matters.

In a way, Mac is grateful for the walk. She's pretty sure that if she ever stops moving, the terror and the fatigue will overtake her, and then she'll never be able to get up again. In her woozy, petrified state, putting one foot in front of the other requires every bit of concentration she can muster, leaving hardly any space for her mind to wander back to the dream that woke her in the first place.

How this all works very well at first, until one errant, insidious thought slips past her blinders, almost stopping her racing heart. _What if he isn't there? What if he's –_

But this is an exceedingly dangerous line of questioning, and Mac quashes it swiftly before her mind can finish the sentence. She doubles her pace in an effort to outrun it, and hugs herself tightly to quell the sudden ache in her chest, but she can't shake the fear, now that it's found her.

Not slowing down even for a second, she fumbles with her Blackberry, her cold fingers trembling so violently that she has to scroll through her contacts three times before she finds his number.

She tries to school her breathing before he answers, tries to pull herself together so she doesn't worry him unnecessarily, but all her attempts amount to nothing as soon as he hears her voice, hears her sanity unraveling like the threads of every metaphor she has ever attempted.

How she is so certain, right up until the last second, that setting her eyes on Will is going to solve everything, that taking one look at him will be enough to reassure her.

This is a cruel trick on the universe's part, however, because the elevator doors part and Will comes into view, but Mac is paralyzed. She truly can't tell if the man standing before her is really him, or some mirage conjured up by her oxygen-starved brain, or if she's still at home in bed, and this is all part of her dream.

If she could only touch him, then she would know for sure if he's real, but she can't. She simply can't bear to close the gap between them, because if she does and he isn't, then it means that the dream is over, that it was true all along, and she's absolutely positive that she won't survive that.

Never mind the fact that Mackenzie relinquished her right to touch Will whenever she wanted to five years ago, and she's nowhere near certain that he won't push her away if she attempts it now. That wouldn't be quite as bad as the dream, but it's not far off.

The silent seconds stretch on unbearably between them, and she wishes desperately that she had the words to explain herself, but now that she's here, facing him, it's like her jaw is clamped shut.

How Will's hands are suddenly wrapping themselves around her own, ending the stalemate, and even that first point of contact, a light brush of his unmistakable fingertip against her skin, feels like it's reaching down and branding her very heart.

_It's him._

_He's here._

_He's real._

_He's okay._

The effect is instantaneous. Mac is suddenly sobbing in Will's arms, crying harder than she's ever cried in her entire life, so hysterical that she's frightening even herself, overcome with more emotions than she has names for. All along, a tiny part of her heart has been trying to brace itself for the single worst moment of her life, and when it doesn't come, she is not remotely capable of containing the response.

She has no concept of time after that, merely that she clings to Will like he's the only sturdy thing in a world that is falling apart around her ears. Finally, mercifully she loses consciousness.

Mackenzie remembers all of it in that split-second after waking, and understands, at last, that the sunlight is pouring in through _Will's_ bedroom window. It's still early morning, so they haven't been sleeping long; it's been perhaps four or five hours since she arrived at his apartment.

And that wonderful warmth that she's clutching as if her life depends on it? That is Will himself, her face buried in his neck, her right hand fisted tightly in the front of his t-shirt. The shirt has ridden up in the night, so her wrist is resting on the hot, bare skin of his stomach.

Mac flinches as if she's scalded herself, but before she can unclench her fingers enough to withdraw them, Will seizes her arm, trapping it against his body.

Mackenzie burns with a thousand kinds of shame. "Please," she croaks, a wave of nausea swelling up inside of her. "This is already the most humiliating moment of my life. Please, please, _please_ let me go, let me get out of here with whatever tiny shred of dignity I have left."

But Will does nothing of the sort, maintaining his firm grip on her arm, and when she understands that he is unwilling to grant her even this one small reprieve, Mac's heart plummets despairingly in her chest. She doesn't even have enough fight left in her to resist when he rolls over onto his back, pulling her rigid body into his arms, and guiding her spinning head to his chest.

"We need to talk about this," he says, his voice still gravelly with sleep.

Mac stiffens even further in his arms, the nausea and the dull ache of her head combining to make her feel like she's hung-over. She can't even appreciate how warm and solid his chest feels beneath her cheek because somehow, just like that, she has ruined everything. _Again_.

They have been getting along so well lately, and she wishes more than anything for a way to turn back the clocks, back to the way things were only yesterday, but she can't. No amount of damage control on her part is going to salvage this.

Still, with Will lying there, waiting for a response, and the apology hovering on her lips, it isn't long before the anxiety becomes too much and it comes spilling out of her. "I'm sorry," she says inadequately, the air hitching in her throat, her voice dangerously close to cracking. "I'm sorry for bothering you, I shouldn't have barged in on you like this. I'm sorry."

"Shhhh," Will murmurs, stroking the back of her neck with his thumb in just the right spot. "I'm not mad, you don't have to apologize or be embarrassed."

"You're … not?" Mac asks, breathless and uncertain, her tense body still primed to flee.

"No," he replies firmly. "But we are going to talk about this. I think you shaved about ten years off my life last night, so you're not sneaking out of here without an explanation."

He chooses his words well, because appealing to Mackenzie's guilty conscience will always work, at least where Will is concerned. She owes him so much, and for this not least of all.

But even now, Will doesn't push her. His thumb on her neck is joined by another on her bare arm, and both of them tell her to calm down, to breathe, to take her time. And eventually, she does, cautiously unclenching her muscles and taking slow, deep breaths, inhaling his comforting scent. As the headache and the nausea begin to recede, she allows herself, for the first time, to hope that Will is telling her the truth, that she has not done irreparable damage to their fragile friendship.

At last, Mac is relaxed in his arms once more, her breathing slow and even. Only then does Will ease them both up into a sitting position, their linked hands resting between them on the bed. Mac's face is crimson and swollen from her tears, but Will has seen far worse from her by now, so she lets her hair tumble back over her shoulders, and steadily holds his gaze.

"You okay?" he asks, just to be sure.

She nods, though she can't help blushing afresh, feeling extremely foolish about her behaviour now, in the light of day.

"What _happened_, Mac?" Will exhales, in a voice that tells her he's still stunned by what he witnessed just a few short hours ago.

"I had a nightmare," Mackenzie confesses. "You were—" but she breaks off abruptly, pressing one hand to her mouth and looking away, shaking her head. Even now, in the safety of Will's bedroom, and with Will himself by her side, the memory is still far too raw, and she can't describe what she saw without the words catching painfully in her throat.

"Rationally, I knew you were fine," she continues when she can speak again. "I knew that you were probably sleeping, but it was just _so_ real, and I lost it, I panicked. I had to see for myself that you were okay."

"I'm fine," he tells her needlessly.

Mac nods wanly. "I know," she replies, though the images from her nightmare continue to assault her, playing themselves out in graphic detail in front of her mind's eye. Because _this_ time, he's fine, but who's to say what tomorrow will bring? Especially in light of –

Fresh panic gnaws insistently at her heart, until she's blurting out, "Will you do something for me?"

"What?" Will asks, tilting his head to the side.

But Mackenzie hesitates and ducks her head, momentarily regretting her outburst.

"Mac?" Will prompts her.

She sighs. "Will you stop looking up those Will McAvoy hate websites?" she asks quietly, glancing up just in time to see Will's jaw drop.

"How did you—"

Mac smiles sadly. "You had your laptop open when I came into the studio before the last segment on Friday," she explains.

She didn't say anything about it then, not wanting to throw him off his game in the middle of a broadcast, but seeing that just about killed her, right there in the studio. She couldn't have been more devastated if he decided to take up again with one of those cheerleaders he had insisted on parading through the newsroom. Even firing her would hurt less than this.

"Mac, I—"

"Please?" she says, interrupting him. "I swear I'll stop asking what the voicemail said if you'll do this for me," she promises. She'll do anything, anything in the world for him not to hate himself so much.

But Will is still flabbergasted, gaping down at her like a fish, and Mackenzie is mortified to feel fresh tears stinging at the corners of her yes. "Billy, please?" she begs. She thought she cried herself dry last night, but the tears are trickling down her face for the thousandth time, and the words spill out of her mouth unbidden. "I can't walk in here and find you unconscious and bleeding on the floor again, I just can't!"

Mac claps a hand to her mouth, and tries desperately to twist away from his scrutiny, but once again Will is faster, seizing her wrist in his hand and holding it firmly between them until Mac is forced to meet his gaze.

"I promise," he tells her sincerely, and Mackenzie's head sinks tearfully onto his shoulder, her frame shuddering with relief.

"Thank you," she mumbles into his shirt, though the words are woefully inadequate.

"That's what your nightmare was about?" he asks softly, stroking her arm with his thumb.

"Yeah," she admits hoarsely. "Only, this time, you were – you didn't—"

"I get it," Will says, so she doesn't have to finish her sentence, doesn't have to tell him that the nightmare coursing through her brain is exactly like the one she and Lonny walked in on last month, except for one crucial detail.

He's still unconscious, his shirt and bathmat and a thousand other things still streaked with vomit and coppery blood, more blood than she's seen since she herself was stabbed. But this time, his lips are blue, and she doesn't need to wait for Lonny to check his pulse to know that they are too late, that he is already dead.

"I guess with all the fallout over the anniversary coverage, I didn't know how you were really taking it, and I got scared you might do something stupid," Mac explains softly. Even in the state she was in last night, she didn't miss the bourbon and the cigarettes on the coffee table, and it isn't too much of a leap to imagine that other forms of self-medicating might soon follow, intentional or otherwise. It would kill her if something were to happen to him now, when they are so much closer than they've been in years and seem on the verge of figuring things out.

"I promise," Will says again, more conviction in his voice this time, and she squeezes his arm gratefully.

They sit together for a few minutes in a comfortable silence after that, leaning against each other in a loose embrace. Eventually, though, Mac glances over at the clock.

"I should go," she says, though it's the last thing she wants to do. "It's still early, you can get a few more hours sleep if you want to, but you've been more than generous with me."

She squeezes him once more before disentangling their limbs and climbing from the bed, looking around for the few things she brought with her last night.

"Right, of course," Will coughs, as she's slipping into her shoes. "If you leave now, you can probably make it in time for the first rundown."

Mackenzie looks over at him from where she is bending over to pick up her jacket, her brow furrowed slightly. "What are you talking about? I'm not going in today."

"For the 9/11 anniversary, Mac," Will reminds her, puzzled himself now. "You asked everyone to come in early to go over the graphics and everything a couple more times before tonight."

Mac's frown deepens. "Will, I axed myself from the broadcast," she says slowly. "Don's producing tonight. Didn't Charlie tell you?"

"You did what?!" he exclaims.

"I was responsible for every word of the American Taliban broadcast, the same as you," she says firmly. "If it's enough to get you cut from the anniversary, then I'm out too. I can't believe you'd think I'd do the broadcast without you."

"Oh," says Will quietly, his gaze suddenly unfocused.

When he doesn't say anything more, Mac turns to go, but just as she reaches his bedroom door, Will blurts, "Stay and watch the coverage with me?"

Mac turns slowly back to face him. "What?" she asks, her eyes wide, certain she must have misheard.

"It's still early, most of the networks won't start until 8:00," he says. "If you don't have to go in to work, I thought maybe…" He trails off and scratches the back of his neck, plainly feeling silly for issuing the invitation. "Look, forget I said anything, I just—"

"I'd like that," Mac says, smiling shyly.

A few minutes later, she finds herself standing surreally in Will's magnificent shower, lathering up and watching the last of yesterday's sweat, tears and worries swirl down the drain. She rinses slowly, giving Will more than enough time to clear away the evidence of last night's vices from the living room.

When she emerges from the bedroom, Mackenzie is wearing an old t-shirt and sweats he has laid out for her, still tired, but far more relaxed than she has been in months. Will hands her a coffee mug, and she sips it gratefully. As the caffeine fills her system, she smiles to see that he still remembers how she takes it.

Will pours his own cup of coffee, and then they settle down together on the couch, sitting side-by-side in unspoken agreement. When Will isn't looking, Mac can't stop inhaling the scent of him on her shirt.

They spend the entire day like this, switching back and forth between FOX and CNN and half a dozen other networks, offering the occasional praise or criticism of the coverage, but mostly just choosing to watch it together in silence. They get up only when they need to replenish their coffees, or to throw a frozen pizza in the oven. It's not a happy day, by any stretch, but it feels right, spending it together like this, just the two of them.

Sometime after lunch, they find themselves sitting closer together than they were before, both with their legs outstretched, feet resting on the coffee table. Mac is all too aware of the heat of Will's leg where his thigh is touching hers.

For now, it is enough.

They'll switch to ACN later for the primetime coverage, though, and maybe, as they watch Sloan and Elliot and Don occupying the roles that they should be playing – maybe then, Mackenzie will take Will's hand.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

Thanks so much for reading!

My goal was to have this posted in September 11th for the anniversary, but editing this chapter has been excruciating, and has taken forever … I think I rewrote entire pages of this chapter _at least_ seven times, and even now I'm not sure I like how it all turned out. I blame the fact that I'm playing with time a bit in this fic. Yeah, that's the problem…

I apologize if you were expecting them to get together at the end, but I wanted it to fit believably into the timeline of early season two. I feel like they were growing closer at that point, but it made more sense to me to leave it as a friendship. I hope you'll leave a review and let me know what you think!


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